I stood at Mitch’s hospital bedside, my hand in his, praying in silence. The face, the ventilator, the silence in the room, told a grim story. My childhood friend had summoned me to say “Good-bye…”

“Please, Mitch, don’t leave us now – the country needs your voice; Rose and the children need you…and God, alone, knows how much you mean to me…don’t leave, please…”

His cheeks were puffy and red, a stark contrast to rest of his face which was snowy white, so pale. That notable silvery head of hair and bushy handlebar mustache, always meticulously groomed, that gave him the eerie appearance of the notable Armenian author, William Saroyan,  was now tousled in sweat and the only audible sound came from the ventilator which was breathing for him, as his body tried to fight the deadly infection that had invaded him and appeared to be taking command of his lungs and body.

Mitch was battling for his life and all I could do was stand there and pray that he would win…as he had in the past.

I kept saying to myself that my childhood friend would survive. He must survive…

Rose moved close to me and whispered, “Tommy, do you want a chair?” I shook my head silently. I stood there, dazed, not knowing what to do – or say – and my heart hammering as if it would shatter into pieces. The hopelessness of it all. It was excruciating.

And, then it happened. Mitch opened his eyes…I squeezed his hands. “It’s me, Mitch…It’s me…” He smiled, recognizing me, and I went on, “You son-of-a-bitch…you son-of-a-bitch…you’re trying to get out of our contract!”

When The Repatriate was first published and readers were commenting how it should be made into a movie,  I shook my head and said dream on. Disingenuous as one may think I would be if such an offer would be forthcoming, I felt uncomfortable having my life and those whom I respected and loved for all to see, although writing about it had not bothered me at all. I suppose it is the idea of it being right there for all to see, rather than “hidden” between the covers of a book. My result of my research surprised me when I discovered many authors feel the way I do.

I wrote my memoirs in order to offset what had been written about me in the Soviet Union, and the report in Batch 13, of the Investigation Into the Assassination of President John F. Kennedy where my name is among those on the same page of Lee Harvey Oswald.

Mitch, who wrote several promotional and news articles about my book tour, took a different view of promoting the book and, if fortunate, bringing the story to the silver screen.

“We must do it if the opportunity comes,” he said.

I said no.

“But you’re not seeing the big picture.”

“And that is…?”

“The possibilities are endless and we could really tweak the noses of those damn Turks…the genocide…Stalin…the gulags…and the sex. It will make a beautiful movie.”

“And they’ll also want a movie script, and I’m sick of writing.”

He echoed my thoughts.

“So, am I. But, we’ll do it. We will make this thing come alive.”

I knew that whatever Mitch set out to do, he accomplished. And I soon found myself agreeing with him. And then he asked me what I thought of the movie starting off like…”There are these two old men – you and me, sitting in a bar with a glass of beer…”

“No,” I interrupted, “No beer. I hate beer!”

“Okay, bartender, make that a bottle of Five Star, Armenian Cognac.”

“Then, what?”

“Well, after a toast to God and country, we begin arguing, like most elderly Armenians do.”

“Argue about what?” I innocently ask.

“Politics, you idiot, and then about you going to the Soviet Union…about how crazy an idea it is, that you’re leaving the United States for what? For a gulag, that’s what!”

“Mitch, you’re full of s—!”

“But…then you get on that damn Soviet ship….the…”

“The Rossia…”

“And, you’re lonely…you meet Kiva…and …It will be the movie that we’ve all been waiting for. Let’s do it!”

“And, you’ll help write it?”

“We’ll have as much fun writing and selling the script as we had selling ice as kids.”

I was about to extend my hand and shake his hand and say, “It’s a deal!” when I saw in my mind the old men in the bar drinking the cognac and said, “I’m in, but on one condition…”

“And what is that?” Mitch asked.

“That neither of us shall die until we have this project finished,” I said. “If you dare die before we complete this project, I will sue the pants off of you, even if I have to chase you all across the universe, hunt you on each of all of the planets to find you.!”

Mitch laughed and agreed.

The verbal contract was sealed with a toast of cognac and a handshake. And we began working on the manuscript before this sudden illness hit him. It was inevitable, for both of us were living on borrowed time.

Mitchell “Mitch” Kehetian’s services were conducted on February 27, 2020, at St. Sarkis Church in Dearborn, the Rev. Father Hrant Kevorkian officiating. Despite the wintry storm that engulfed the Detroit Metropolitan area, and the arctic winds that accompanied the icy storm, the pews of the church were filled to pay homage to one of the icons of the community.

After the traditional Armenian prayers and services, Father Kevorkian told the mourners that during his solemn visits with Mitch at the hospital he admired what an extraordinary human being Mitch had been, his contributions as a journalist, his love of country and the motherland, and his remarkable drive and energy in raising funds for the rebuilding of Nor Keghi (New Keghi). Keghi was one of several villages in Turkey that had been torched and its unarmed Armenians inhabitants were massacred by Turkey military during and in the aftermath of World War I It was part of a genocide that claimed the lives of more than 1.5 million Christian Armenians who for centuries had lived under the rule of the Ottoman Empire sultans.

During one of his visits with Mitch at the hospital, Father Kevorkian said he asked what Mitch’s thoughts and concerns were. He had been touched and pleasantly surprised at some of his answers.

“….teach your children to be proud Armenians and Americans and, above all, if possible take them to Armenia to feel and touch where their roots began. Make sure they study Armenian history as well as their heritage…we must keep faith in who we are and also all in our beliefs and church.”

Father Kevorkian went on to say, “Mitch also asked me to make sure I pass on his message to the AYA (Armenian Youth Association) for the children, our children are the future of our country.”

In his eulogy, Father Kevorkian also noted, “Mitch Kehetian’s exemplary life is a profile of courage and patriotism. Mitch is one of those rare and remarkable human beings who dedicated his life to helping others and building bridges….we are here today because we are thankful for what he has accomplished and proud of having known him…”

The 200+ mile ride home seemed much longer than usual.

Read the full “Mitch and Me” series:

Mitch and Me: A Posthumous Tribute to a Childhood Friend
Mitch and Me: The Years of the Great Depression
Mitch and Me: Iconic Moments of Friendship
Mitch and Me: Challenges in a New World
Mitch and Me: Explaining the Inexplicable
Mitch and Me: A Divergence
Mitch and Me: The Final Chapter to an Epic Life
Mitch and Me: The “Contract” is Null & Void

When you write your last chapter, is it written in tears or is it an ode to joy?

Mitch and I are children of the Great Depression and we also survived the 20^th Century, one of the bloodiest centuries of human history. Ironically, it was war – World War I – that would bring us together, yet emotionally place us at opposite ends of the political ideological spectrum concerning the two countries we both loved – the United States of America and the Republic of Armenia.

Mitch was a patriot who served the United States in peace and in war and he believed in a free and independent Armenia. He used his organizational skills to help raise funds for the Motherland after the downfall of the Soviet Union. As a member of the United States Military Corps, he used his language skills in the Army Active Reserve Intelligence Division – foreign interrogation. When I asked him how many Soviet Armenians he questioned, Mitch would break out in a smile and answer in Armenian, “That’s classified information.”

On April 24, the day set aside for the commemoration and remembrance of the Armenian Genocide, Mitch would submit an editorial to the Armenian newspapers to remind the nation and the world that the evil that was and still exists must be eradicated.

“Words mean nothing,” he would stress, “unless they are supported by action.” Being an inactive spectator was not in his genes.

Never flamboyant or seeking praise of any kind, Mitch cared only about learning the truth and to seeing justice prevail; he tirelessly worked to uncover and present the facts before putting his thoughts on the page. He recognized and often reminded those in the office that “Reporters report the news; they don’t attend meetings to make news.”

Some of Mitch’s many accomplishments include:

• The Wayne State University Lifetime Achievement Award, in recognition of 52 years as an outstanding leader in journalism, as a reporter and editor
• The March of Dimes General Alexander Malcolm Citizen of the Year Award in recognition of his support and services for the nonprofit organization
• Served as president of the Detroit Press Club and Society of Professional Journalists
• Served as Trustee of Central Michigan University, appointed by Gov. James Blanchard

But, I believe he felt his greatest accomplishment is a legacy in friends and an incredible giving and caring family that will carry on his dreams of justice for all, building bridges not walls, and to those who cannot help themselves, the educational tools and support to do so.

Couples who build a life together and create a family that blossoms and contributes to society are the real builders of nations – and this above all, Rose and Mitch accomplished.

“If you’re looking for financial or any other kinds of awards in what you’re doing,” Mitch would tell me, “it won’t be in journalism or newspapering. Look far beyond the horizon…”

Life may seem that it is corroding all around us at this time, but all times, since the beginning of recorded time, has been challenging. One may believe that he is the master of his own fate but, as the days turn into weeks and years, one realizes the inevitable is waiting and unavoidable.

I was sitting in our living room reading David McCullough’s epic biography of John Adams and thinking of how I would have loved to have been sitting at his dinner table to hear John and Abigail converse about the challenges they and the colonists faced, reflecting, “…and we think we have it hard.”

The ringing of a telephone disrupted my melancholy. I heard my wife, Jan, pick up the phone followed by a series of inaudible words. When she came into the living room I knew something was wrong.

“It was Rose,” she said.

“My sister?” I nervously asked, wondering if something was wrong in the family.

“No, it was Rose Kehetian,” she explained. “She wants to know why you’re going to sue Mitch!”

God, forbid.

Jan continued, “Mitch is in Oakwood Hospital.”

We packed our bags and drove the two-hundred twenty-five miles to Dearborn to see my friend.

…to be continued

Read the full “Mitch and Me” series:

Mitch and Me: A Posthumous Tribute to a Childhood Friend
Mitch and Me: The Years of the Great Depression
Mitch and Me: Iconic Moments of Friendship
Mitch and Me: Challenges in a New World
Mitch and Me: Explaining the Inexplicable
Mitch and Me: A Divergence
Mitch and Me: The Final Chapter to an Epic Life
Mitch and Me: The “Contract” is Null & Void

After we would put the newspaper to bed and, if I didn’t have a council meeting or a basketball game or a swimming meet to cover, Mitch and I would sit in the newsroom and discuss our favorite subjects – the old times, national and world news, and politics.

And, yes, we were really fortunate on Sundays when Rose, his lovely wife, would stop by around noon with chicken, pilaf, salad, and baklava, and join in the discussion.

Often times on Sundays, an unusual scholar and philosopher from the East, Jack Warren, would also come by.

I got to know Jack under very unusual circumstances. When the newspaper was a weekly, he dropped by the office one Sunday and asked if he could help out by covering the high school wrestling meets for me.

I told him that I would “really appreciate the help” but I didn’t have the authority to hire anyone. I was the sports editor and employment was handled by the publisher and the publisher alone. Jack nodded his head showing he understood, but continued that he wasn’t interested in employment.

“No problem,” Jack said, “I work at the airport. I’m volunteering my time and services to you. I enjoy your columns, and I love wrestling.  He also mentioned that he was an avid Wayne Memorial High school coach and team fan. “I attend all of their meets and tournaments and, if you want, I will cover them and other teams in your newspapers’ circulation area. I know most of the coaches in the area, and they know me and I will give you the results so you can write the stories.”

What sports editor wouldn’t accept such an offer?

So I did. And to show my appreciation I offered to buy him lunch anytime he was available. Our relationship, respect, and friendship grew during the days, month, and years that followed.

And I believe he is the one who saved my job. I will get back to Mitch and Me next week; this week I need to answer those who asked how I lost my job…

It came to pass that Mitch returned to The Macomb Daily, and we would have not only a new managing editor, but a new general manager as well. On one particular stormy and wintry evening, after the paper was put to bed, I was summoned to the office of General Manager…“Voldemort”. He waved his powerful wand and said, “Be gone, Tom.” And off I went, wondering why he hatred my guts. I had devoted more than a decade to this chain of newspapers and I believed I was doing a pretty good job. But, alas, it was what it was and I headed home to try to explain it to my dear wife.

Voldemort not only made me disappear, but also abolished the sports section. According to union contract, although I had more seniority than most of the staff reporters and could easily handle any assignment, because the evil Voldemort had abolished the Sports Section, nothing could be done to reinstate me.

Friday night passed, as did Saturday, then on Sunday, Jack Warren called me at home and said, “Hey, I hope you’re not sick. I was at the newspaper office, knocked on the door, and no answer…Aren’t you coming in? I hope you’re all right.”

“Jack, I’m not with the newspaper – they’ve laid me off.”

“What? What did you say?”

“I said, they laid me off – I’m not with the newspaper.”

“The hell you aren’t!” And the phone went silent.

I spent the rest of the day enjoying time with my family, as I had done so rarely because of my job, which I no longer had.

Monday afternoon, the general manager’s secretary called me at home, “Mr. Mooradian, please return to the office – the managing editor would like to talk to you…”

“I’m sorry, but I have been laid off …”

“Please, Mr. Mooradian, I’ve been asked to tell you that they want you back…”

After returning the phone to its cradle I told my wife about the call. She smiled and said, “Better go and see what they want.”

I opened the office door and glanced at the receptionist. There wasn’t that usual eye-contact or “Hi, Tom, how are Jan and the kids?” The editorial staff also looked at me with a sense of awe. My managing editor quickly smiled from his office.

On my empty desk was an unsigned note, “What the F— did you do?!”

The events of the day were revealed over time. Starting early that morning hundreds of phone calls to the circulation department had started pouring in, demanding subscription cancellations unless I was reinstated immediately. In addition there were threats by businesses that ads would be canceled unless the sports section and Tom Mooradian were returned to the paper.

To this day I do not know for certain who or what the catalyst was that began the telephone barrage, but my suspicion is that Jack Warren hatched the plan and organized the Booster Clubs to take charge. However, he never admitted any involvement.

Ironically, if Voldemort had waited until summer he just may have succeeded in his odious deed. It was obvious that the general manager knew little about newspapering. If he did, he would never have “laid off” any sports’ staff during the late winter when high school basketball teams are preparing for the state playoffs and championships, wrestling districts are underway, and swimming and volleyball games are being staged.

“March Madness” was just a flip of a calendar page away. One Sunday morning I arrived at the newspaper office and didn’t find Jack waiting for me. I went into the office and phoned his apartment. There was no answer. After an hour or two, I phoned again, again no answer.

I jumped in the car, drove to the apartment, and knocked at the door – no answer. I called the local police chief, a close friend of mine, and he immediately dispatched a patrol car. The officers met me at the door then one of them left to find the apartment manager. Together we entered the apartment. Jack was on the floor of his bedroom…he had suffered a fatal heart attack.

Read the full “Mitch and Me” series:

Mitch and Me: A Posthumous Tribute to a Childhood Friend
Mitch and Me: The Years of the Great Depression
Mitch and Me: Iconic Moments of Friendship
Mitch and Me: Challenges in a New World
Mitch and Me: Explaining the Inexplicable
Mitch and Me: A Divergence
Mitch and Me: The Final Chapter to an Epic Life
Mitch and Me: The “Contract” is Null & Void

Mitch and I were children of the Great Depression.

We were also children whose fathers were born in the Ottoman Empire, in the same mountainous village of Keghi; my father, Boghos, a shepherd in his youth and Mitch’s dad, Kaspar, an intellect whose love of books at an early age would be passed on to the children.

The Mooradians and the Kehetians’ lives were miraculously spared during a series of genocidal massacres Sultan Abdul Hamid II’s reign perpetrated in the late 19^th Century, claiming the lives of more than 600,000 Christian Armenians. Our grandparents knew that there would be subsequent assaults upon the Armenian Christians and decided to ship their eldest sons off to friends and relatives in North America.

Boghos, my dad, wound up with an uncle in Guelph, Canada; Kaspar, at sixteen, traveled to Detroit and was greeted at the station by a cousin.

Ironically, our mothers were raised and lived in Erezum, where they witnessed the horrific extermination of their family, friends and neighbors by the nationalist Young Turks, who declared that they would solve “The Armenian Question” by wiping the Armenians off the face of the earth.

My mother Dzovinar, (Sophie) was orphaned and somehow managed to get to Marseilles, France, eventually immigrating to Canada, while Mitch’s mother, Arousiag, reached the same port and eventually made her way to the United States and to Detroit.

Apparently suffering from “survivor’s guilt”, most Armenian genocide survivors would not talk about their experiences during what historians would call the First Genocide of the 20^th Century.  “I am blessed with four beautiful children and a good husband and a roof above our heads,” my mother would tell us when asked about her past.  “What has happened, has happened and no one, not even God can change.”  When anyone in need, pain or hunger, came to our doorstep, they were greeted, invited in, and provided with shelter and food.

More than one hundred years after the genocide, the Armenians still seek justice. Although Blaise Pascal put forth, “Time heals pain and quarrels.” I agree with Rose Kennedy’s understanding, “It has been said that time heals all wounds. I don’t agree. The wounds remain.” And most Armenians would stand with her.

The Kehetians and the Mooradians were neighbors. We rented homes on Cottrell Street.

Eight days before I was born – July 31, 1928 – a presidential candidate, Herbert Hoover, in accepting the Republican Party’s nomination for the candidacy to become the 31^st President of the United States noted, “We in American today are nearer to the final triumph over poverty than ever in the history of the nation.” Not a bad time to make a landing in the United States, I would say.

But Mitch had a crash landing on the day of his birth.

On October 20, 1930, he arrived in the midst of the Great Depression, with millions of Americans joining millions of Europeans looking for work. About a year previously (October 24, 1929) the world’s economy had shut down. Wall Street crumbled, then crashed and 2.6 billion dollars in stocks were traded, the euphoria of buying ended and selling became impossible. As one reporter’s account of the panic noted, “It is hard to quantify the losses but they are estimated to be in the billions of dollars…frightened investors ordered their brokers to sell at whatever the price, and the stock market crashed….this is a day that will go down in history as Black Thursday.”

With Hoover at the helm, some doubted that capitalism would survive and many joined those in the increasing bread lines who believed that communism offered a solution to solving their problems. The conflict between the two philosophic theories of economy and governance would dominate and divide the world into the 21^st Century.

My father lost everything – three coffee houses he owned on Solvay. Mitch’s father, who had enlisted in the United States Army in hopes of being sent to fight the Turks, had returned home as a veteran. They would be at opposite ends of the political spectrum.

My father chose Lenin and communism as savior and the road to salvation for the working class. Mitch’s father supported the Democratic Republic of Armenia and Armenian Military Commander Andranik Ozanian, supporting an independent Armenia.

I was ordered into the living room one day and told by my father that I was never, ever again to speak or play with Mitch Kehetian or associate in any way with that family.

As an obedient son, I nodded my head.

Mitch became my closest friend from that day forward. I left for Soviet Armenia in November of 1947 and during that time, we did not talk or write for thirteen years.

On August 5, 1960, reporters were standing among a crowd of curious spectators, awaiting my arrival from the Soviet Union. My father barred anyone from going into the house on Crawford Street as I rushed up the front steps to reunite with my family.

My brother Robert apparently was interviewed by a reporter, from the Detroit News and, the following day, the News’ headline streamed across the front page: “Detroiter Ends 13-Year `Lark’ in the Soviet Union.”

That afternoon I had a phone call from a reporter at The Detroit Times. I did not recognize the voice and told the caller, who asked if he could come over to talk to me about my experiences in the Soviet Union, that I was sorry, but I was tired and wasn’t available.

“The Tom Mooradian I grew up with was never too tried to do anything…’

“Who is this?” I asked.

“It’s Mitch, you idiot…you can talk to The News and not me – are you an imposter?”

“Mitch…Mitch…Mitch…I missed you. Is the Sweet Shoppe still there?”

“Yes. See you there within the hour.”

Read the full “Mitch and Me” series:

Mitch and Me: A Posthumous Tribute to a Childhood Friend
Mitch and Me: The Years of the Great Depression
Mitch and Me: Iconic Moments of Friendship
Mitch and Me: Challenges in a New World
Mitch and Me: Explaining the Inexplicable
Mitch and Me: A Divergence
Mitch and Me: The Final Chapter to an Epic Life
Mitch and Me: The “Contract” is Null & Void

***

Tom Mooradian was one of 151 Americans who traveled to Soviet Armenia to repatriate during the 1940’s. Thought to be a spy by the KGB, Tom miraculously survived 13 years behind the Iron Curtain winning the hearts of the Soviets through his basketball prowess.  Filled with political drama, romance, and intrigue, Tom’s autobiography, The Repatriate reads like a novel, and will have you guessing how Tom managed to return to America alive.
The Second Edition is now available on Kindle and in Paperback!